The Vengeance of Thuringwethil
by Celridel
Summary: Having recovered, Thuringwethil, woman of the Secret Shadow, seeks vengeance on the descendants of Lúthien in the Redhorn Pass. A\U.
1. The Redhorn Pass

**A\N. Many thanks to Ardhoniel Marvelite for inspiring this.** **This is very** **A\U. You are warned.**

Arwen sat in silent thought, her grey palfrey going at a smooth canter beneath her. The summer sun was hot around her, and she welcomed the cooler breeze that swept around, stirring the leaves and lifting her black hair from her damp neck. But it also brought the threat of storm, it seemed. There was a scent darker than that of rain in its wind, and uneasiness folded her in a shadowy embrace.

Clouds began to gather, and she glanced at her mother. Celebrían 's blue eyes were narrowed. "Celegion." she murmured to the Elf by her by side.

He leaned over. "My Lady?"

"There is more than storm that rides on the wind."

He glanced up, grey eyes wary. "Indeed."

" _Nana_? What is it?" asked Arwen, drawing her horse nearer. She was not defenseless, and she derived some measure of comfort in the dagger she grasped beneath her cloak. A stone fell from the Redhorn Pass, bouncing down from the narrow pass and into the abyss below.

A single rain drop fell.

Celegion's sharp commands were muffled as the air grew thicker, hazy.

Celebrían swallowed, she too casting aside the traveling cloak. Twin swords were strapped to her back. "Take this, daughter. A dagger will not be much use."

Arwen took the ivory handle. She knew how to use it. Her brothers had taught her.

" _Nana,_ you have not yet answered me. You fear something more than the _yrch._ " she said.

"In the time of your ancestor, there was a great evil that no man could withstand." replied Celebrían , staring ahead.

"I mean no disrespect, but now is no time for learning ancient history, I fear. What is it?"

"I do not know, but I have a guess."

"Which is?" asked Arwen, an impatient laugh forcing its way to her lips. She had begun to braid her hair. Should a battle come, loose tresses would mean nothing good.

"Bear me out, _iell._ In the time of Luthien, there was an evil that was perhaps nearly equal to the Dark Lord. She was thought to be destroyed, but I greatly doubt it. We have heard rumors of a fearful creature. A beautiful woman, clad in white, the wings of a bat, blood staining her face. Only rumors, mind you, because most of the people were dead. And the others...had the curse of Thuringwethil."

Arwen stiffened, a sickening fear throbbing through her body. "Thuringwethil?" was the only thing she said, her voice weak in the dark air.

"She desires vengeance against the child of Luthien. And what could go better than to waylay us when we are alone in the mountains?" Celebrían sighed, bitterness overflowing her voice.

"And the Curse of Thuringwethil?" said Arwen quickly. "Can it be passed on? Will I have to slay my comrades."

"Pray to the _Belain_ it does not come to that." her mother returned. They had been moving ahead slowly. The clouds had darkened now. The breeze had stopped, leaving them with sickening heat, as if the Fires of Angband roared beneath them. Arwen grasped the hilt of her sword till her hand grew white.

And then all warmth was gone, as if it had been sucked from the very earth. A frigid cold was upon them, an icy fear. Their hearts quailed. A terror grew upon them till it seemed beyond measure. And still they went forward. Silence prevailed over the world, a nameless fear.

"Halt." A voice spoke from the clouds, filled with darkness, shrouded in blood and evil, and it gave to Arwen such horror, such fear she shrieked.

Vailë stood still, such was the faithfulness of Elven-steeds. A laugh out in the night, a laugh that mocked, a laugh of beauty twisted into hatred, and from the mist stepped a figure. She was tall, very tall and slender, pale as the moonlight and as evil as Hell's depths.

Her face was beautiful, cold and proud, wrought with evil but not born with it. Her skin held a deathly pallor, but her mouth was crimson with blood. She was clad in a pale gown, but black bat wings draped about her as a cloak of wickedness.

Thuringwethil stood there. Her eyes pierced Arwen, eyes as green as the cats of Queen Beruthiel, and far more venomous. Hair that held the blackness of the Void flowed over her pale shoulders.

Arwen gazed back. It made her weak, weak like she had never dreamed she could be. Her hands trembled, her grips on the reins loose as fatigue overwhelmed her.

Celebrían 's voice broke sharp and ringingly clear in the darkness. "Why are you here, Thuringwethil, Evil of Ancient Times?"

The vampire stepped forward, her tread as soft as Elven-kind, and about her hung the sickly-sweet odor of decay, as if she was fresh flown from the meadows of Minas Morgul. But under that was the smell of blood, coppery and bitter. "I am here for your daughter, O Celebrían , daughter of the rebel Noldo."

"Do not bother to insult my heritage, Thuringwethil. If you come for my daughter, go back to the darkness and save yourself time. She will never be in your claws."

Thuringwethil arched an elegant eyebrow. "You speak with such confidence, Elf." she hissed. "But it took all the powers of a half- _Maia_ mongrel to defeat me. You have no such advantage."

Celebrían nodded. "Aye, tis so. I am not descended from one of the _Maiar._ But I hold something far more powerful in my hands. Stay away from me and my kind, Thuringwethil, or you will burn with all the Fires of Morgoth."

Slowly she bared her head, and amidst the silver cascade glittered a silver circlet. Celebrían took it from her head and held it up.

The vampire flinched almost imperceptibly, and then she laughed, a cruel, piercing sound. "Do you always carry silver with you for your namesake, Silver Queen? Or did you think you would meet me?"

"A old tradition. Now let me by." returned Celebrían .

Thuringwethil bowed, her black wings unfolding. "Ah, _I_ will. But Orcs do not fear silver. Only steel."

With a great cry that smote all courage and left only darkness, her wings spread out and she launched into the storm.

Shouts rang, the screams of _yrch._ Celebrían turned to her daughter, pushing the silver crown into Arwen's hands. "Do not lose this!" she said sharply. She looked up to the dark heavens. " _Elbereth_ , give us your light. _Nienna,_ I pray you will not have to weep for us. _Oromë,_ ride swift and protect us. _Manwë,_ keep us safe.

 _Ilúvatar,_ Lord of All, your will be done." She bowed her head, and then looked up, drawing her sword. The Elves that were their escort had made a formation around them, spears and swords on the outside, and Celebrían joined them. Arwen moved Vailë forward, but Celegion stopped her. "No. Stay in the middle." He handed her a bow, and pushed three quivers into her hands. "Never stop until all the arrows are gone."

Arwen nodded, drawing Vailë back, and dismounted. The chill had not gone from the air, and her hands were numb and shivering as she notched an arrow to the string, the slender crown clenched between her teeth. From the shadows of all evil burst misshapen figures, snarling, shrieking, driving upon the Elven host.

Arwen did not pause. The arrows never stopped, and their mark was true. Slowly the formation moved forward, a iron ringed circle that drove the Orcs forward mercilessly, sending them shrieking over the cliffs or were trampled underfoot.

Arwen gave a little scream as a black-shafted arrow hissed through the air and struck the Elf before her . Why had the Orcs not shot before? was her half-conscious thought. But all was silent no. No more of the _yrch_ pressed forward. Had they defeated them?

At a high price, even at the cost of one of the Firstborn. Arwen kissed the forehead of the _elleth._ "Namo, send her to the Blessed Realm soon." was her soft prayer. A murmur rang around the little ring, and Arwen stood up, remounting Vailë. Once again Thuringwethil came, a bow in her slender hands, a quiver before her feet. "If you think you have won, you are sorely deceived. All the Orcs of the Mountains swarm around you, though the darkness silences them. There is no hope...nay, there is one hope. Give to me the one that walks in the likeness of Luthien, and you all will go free."

Celebrían stared at the vampire in disdain. "If you think I will give my daughter into your clutches, you wretched creature, you know nothing of love."

Thuringwethil tilted her head, almost curiously, and Arwen's breath caught in her throat. "No. I remember nothing of love. It's a strange thing. It causes so many deaths. If you but give me one, you can save a score. Would that not be the noble thing, Celebrían ?" she asked, her voice fluid, persuading. "The daughter of Tinúviel might not even die."

"Nay." mocked Celebrían . "She might even be cursed with your fate. Is that not death enough?"

Thuringwethil flinched. "I vowed vengeance on Luthien's descendants. Give her to me, or you all will all die!"

"If you want her, come and claim her!" cried Celebrían .

"That can be done!" snarled Thuringwethil. She leapt into the air, her ghastly cries echoing, and with a piercing shriek she dove into the midst of the Elves.

Vailë gave a great shriek as the vampire landed beside her, pointed teeth bared, and bucked wildly. Arwen slid off, landing on her feet, the sword clutched in one hand, the silver crown in the other.

"Ah Helcaraxë, and you look like Luthien herself. My vengeance will be sweet." hissed Thuringwethil.

Celebrían wheeled her horse around, sword gripped so tight her hand was white. "Get away from my daughter."

Thuringwethil smiled. "You said to come and claim her." was the taunting reply. "Take her from me, _Noldo_."

The vampire turned then, and lunged, feline grace and litheness combined into a creature of utter evil.

Arwen held up the crown, holding as her only salvation. And in truth, it might be.

A shriek rang, and Thuringwethil staggered back, clutching her hand. Celebrían vaulted from her horse, thrusting at the vampire.

Thuringwethil rolled backwards, and the horses reared as she spread her wings, once again seeking refuge in the dark heavens, and from the clouds her fell voice rang in a foul tongue, and the Elves heard the sound of many marching, the grate of steel.

Doom had come.

"Get on Vailë." ordered Celebrían , her voice sharp. Arwen swung on the shivering horse, trembling just as violently. She put the circlet on her head, praying it would not fall off, but she would need both hands.

The Elven host pressed bravely forward, but hope was gone with the wind in Thuringwethil's wings. Orcs encircled them. Arwen's kinsfolk fell one by one.

Her arrows gone long ago, Arwen had moved besides her mother, her sword dripped with black blood. There were only two left besides themselves, Celegion and Arelim, a warrior elleth.

The Orcs charged them once more, horde upon horde, urged by the fear of what flew above.

Arwen felt the cut of steel and blood poured down her leg. She ran the Orc through.

Celegion gave a groan, and Arwen turned, scything down the Orc that had stabbed him. "Celegion! Celegion!" The _ellon_ slumped forward, blood staining his tunic. With a little sob, she turned to see that she and her mother were alone. Arelim's horse followed them, but his rider was gone, trampled down among the countless corpses.

Celebrían grabbed her arm. "There!" A furlong off was a steep path, cut by melting ice. It seemed death to go down, and the Orcs shied far away from it, but it was their only hope. Arwen urged Vailë to a gallop. The swift-footed filly cut through the Orcs, Celebrían 's mare close behind, and began their way down. Stones slid before the trembling hooves, but Elf-horses are sure-footed. The Orcs roared, pouring arrows upon them, but dared not go down themselves.

Vailë reached the bottom first, but did not stop, galloping along the mountain path. A shadow flew above them, a white wisp among the darkling clouds. The filly stumbled in exhaustion and Arwen tumbled down, the silver crown flying from her head. And in that instance Thuringwethil struck.


	2. Silver of the Stars

Celebrían wheeled her horse around at Arwen's cry. Her daughter had rolled out of the way of Thuringwethil's grasp. Swift as a striking snake the vampire recovered and seized Arwen with a strength unparalleled, as the Evenstar grasped vainly for the silver crown that was her only hope.

But it was too late. Thuringwethil bore her into the clouds, great bat wings hissing with the speed she flew. Arwen writhed vainly in the creature's grasp. A death by falling it would be far better.

Yet up, up they went, until at last Thuringwethil landed on a stone plateau, far above the dancing mist. She threw Arwen to the ground, and the _elleth_ rolled, laying stunned upon the rock. It was cold under her cheek, she realized vaguely, and then she lifted her head. She was surrounded by clouds, dark as midnight, towering formidable above her, wreathed in all blackness, and not a sliver of light could pierce them. Even the stars stood helpless in the face of this evil.

A hairsbreadth to her right was a chasm, unfathomable. To her left was so surrounded by writhing fog she could not see, but she prayed it was solid. The scent of sweet decay once again filled her, and Thuringwethil landed in a swirl of bat wings and black hair.

"What will you do with me?" asked Arwen softly, sitting up.

Thuringwethil's green eyes flickered with the malice of Sauron. "I will give you to Morgoth, and then I will turn you into what I am." she said softly. "There is no greater torture."

Arwen drew a deep breath, her heart throbbing and she sought to delay that, searching her mind for anything she might have….a ring forged of silver, a necklace, a gem set in that metal would mean all the mithril of Moria to her. Mithril. Mithril! She had a pendant forged of mithril, true-silver. Could it be? "It is said in old lore you were born, and not made a vampire. Is this true?"

Thuringwethil looked down on Arwen. "Yes. You see, Arwen, Lúthien Tinúviel had a mother."

"Melian."

"We were sisters in Ilúvatar's thought, two of the fairest and most powerful of the _Maiar_. But I turned to blackness, and followed Melkor into the Void and beyond. And now, I hate her. Her line stands for all that are against me."

"But we are for the light!" cried Arwen.

"Light!" laughed Thuringwethil. "Light! Darkness always overcomes! The sun always set in blood!"

"But the stars are ever there!" shouted the Evenstar. Fear and disgust flashed across Thuringwethil's face.

"The stars-"

"Elbereth's holy creation." said Arwen, and the vampire flinched at the name of Elbereth. "You will see that the stars cannot help you know, O Undómiel." she snarled.

"Wait!" cried Arwen, searching for time. "How did you become this?"

Thuringwethil turned back. "Morgoth made into this. He is the Lord of all Evil." A bitter smile flashed over her face. "I followed him, and he made into a creature of darkness."

Arwen's right hand fumbled with the clasp, and she begged that Thuringwethil did not have the night-vision of the cats of Queen Beruthìel. "Do you ever regret what you are?" she asked softly.

Thuringwethil tilted her head. "Regret? What is regret?"

Arwen's grey-blue eyes widened. "Regret? When you feel sorrow for what you have done."

"Sorrow?" The vampire frowned. "No, I am never sorrowful for my deeds."

"Why not?"

"Because it is not use. There will never be forgiveness."

"There is always forgiveness." whispered Arwen.

Thuringwethil shook her head. "No. There you Elves are wrong once more. There is one time when you cannot be forgiven, and that is when you do not wish it."

"Then you are a monster." gasped Arwen, a shiver running down her. Thuringwethil threw back her head and laughed. "I am, O Daughter of Lúthien! I am!"

She stood upon her feet, wings and arms outspread to the East, and began to sing. It echoed piercingly, terrible. Arwen groped blindly for the necklace, for suddenly a darkness was laid upon, a cold and a terror. Fear shriveled her, a raw terror that burned ice cold and yet consumed her like fire. Arwen felt her body writhe in flames, yet she was cold. From a distance she heard Thuringwethil's chant continue, but before her she saw blackness, utter darkness. Pain overcame her, crashing waves that beat on body and soul. She writhed in agony grasping vainly for the cold rock, but she could only feel a yielding blackness.

In agony she cried. "Erù, Creator! Save me!"

Something happened then. Something shifted. The iron claws of terror and anguish released her. The blackness subsided and before her she saw a towering figure, blacker than the Void. She curled up in horror, covering her eyes against the horror her foremother had faced, and the pain began once more. She fought to speak and finally the words broke from her lips, an old childish rhyme.

"Erù Ilúvatar, Creator of All

Dwelling in the Timeless Hall

Living beyond Aìnur's memory

Who made the Great Harmony

Fairest of fair, Creation's Song

Erù Ilúvatar, keep me strong!"

Her eyes flew open as she grasped at the cold stone. Her body ached, but her head was clear. She sat up, gasping, to meet Thuringwethil's malice-filled gaze. "I knew you were strong or else viewing Morgoth's hate would have slain you, yet you are even stronger than I thought. Indeed, you must have more of the _Maiar_ blood than I reckoned."

Arwen struggled to speak, but the fear overwhelmed her, and she could not speak. Thuringwethil circled, as a cat circling the helpless prey, and a sickening terror welled up.

With one last jerk the necklace fell, clattering faintly on the stone and Thuringwethil whipped around, but Arwen closed it in her hand.

"Pray one last time, Undómiel, for soon you cannot pray at all." murmured the vampire, surveying her prone body, a light flickering in her eyes.

Arwen struggled to her feet, clutching the chain and pendant tightly, so tight she felt pain in her hands. The chain, a slender cord of steel was strong, but the mithril was cold, and light in her grasp. "I will not become a creature of darkness." she said softly, fighting for speech.

"You have not the Silver Crown nor the Silver Queen to save you now." answered Thuringwethil, tensing slightly as she readied to pounce.

"But I have this!" Thuringwethil sprung at her, yet Arwen held out the pendant and a agonized cry rent the night. Thuringwethil lay writhing on the rock face, her shrieks piercing the night. "Accursed! Accursed!"

Arwen open her eyes from where she lay dazed. The true-silver pendant lay in her open hand, and slowly it began to shine with a soft light. In wonder she looked up to the midnight sky, and saw glittering points of light piercing the blackness, as spears shining with the light of Telperion. The stars shone, and Thuringwethil screamed at their holy light. "No! No!"

Arwen slowly got to her feet, holding out the pendant, determined to end this evil of the ancient world, but Thuringwethil crawled to the brink of the abyss.

Though the daughter of Celebrían came swift, Thuringwethil threw herself over the chasm and as Arwen looked down, she saw her far away, flying as if the whips of Hell were behind her, back towards the bitter East.


	3. Down Celebdil's Path

She lay, blackness surrounded her, conscious of nothing but the aching of her body. Slowly sleep came, but it was no blessed rest. It was a nightmare. Admist the gloom, she saw the figure she had seen before, upon his head an iron crown, in which blazed a holy light, a light that pierced the gloom.

And she saw another, smaller, yet no less evil, and like a wailing wraith it fled from his side, and landed in green grass of Arda, and he was in the form a beautiful man, and by his side a beautiful woman, that Arwen saw was Thuringwethil. Her bat wings folded about the _Maia_ she now guessed as Sauron, and Arwen turned away, half in fear, half in disgust.

Slowly she made her way through the meadow, but she saw that was once lushness under her feet was now shriveling, withered yellow and dry. In horror she looked back, but saw nothing except darkness. It loomed over her like the wave had loomed over Númenor of old, seeking to engulf her in blackness and death. A burning pain came to her hand, the pain of fire, and it spread over her, gnawing, devouring…

Arwen leapt upright with a scream, clutching her hand. It tingled but there was more of the pain. "Elbereth, help me." she whimpered, and looked up.

The sun was shining, shining with a golden light, pure and fierce above the earth's shadows. It welcomed her, warmed her, kept her safe. Where it's rays shone, she could not fear the dark. The mist had dissipated with the dawn, and she found herself looking down. It was a cliff wall, steep yet not unclimbable, but she did not dare to do anything yet, for her body still seemed treacherously weak. She sat there and the sun rose higher. The chill still lingered in the air, and she sat curled up, her cloak wrapped about her and shivering.

Hours passed, fleeting away in a dazed dream, the sun burning down relentlessly now and parching her. Arwen stood up, staggering slightly and uncurled her fingers. There the pendant glittered, an impression made on her white palm, so tight had she clutched it. Slowly she strung on the necklace and crept to the edge.

Arwen drew a deep breath and swung herself down, searching for a foothold, and when her arms had reached their full extent, she touched a ledge. Landing on it, she clung to the wall, looking down over the dizzy height.

Tears stung her eyes and her heart leapt. "A path!" she whispered, overcome by hope once more. "A path! Thank Ilúvatar!"

She stumbled to it. It was steep and hard, but she saw now she had been on an outstretched ledge of Celebdil. It wound down and down, seemingly infinite, but it was a path.

Rocks slipped under her feet as she went, often sending her stumbling. Her eyes swam and her hands bled when she at last collapsed on solid ground.

"Over there! Derneleg, I see something." She heard it, a muffled voice brought by the wind. Arwen cowered down, hoping that by some hope the elven-cloak will hide her. The footsteps came nearer. A hand was laid on her shoulder. She ignored, hoping, begging this was some ill-chanced dream.

"It is an Elf maid." said one. He knelt down beside her and began to speak, in Sindarin. Arwen looked up. It soothed her ringing ears and her aching mind to hear the gentle, fluid syllables again. It calmed her.

"Where are you from?" he asked, still speaking Elvish.

She shook her head, willing words to come to her, but she could not force them past her lips.

He gazed at her pityingly, grey eyes warm and kind. "There is no need to fear. We will bring you safe home, if you but tell us where you are from.

Imladris! her heart cried, but she could not speak it. The man turned to the one called Derneleg. "I doubt she is from Lórien."

"If we bring her to Rivendell, the Elves might be able to find where she is from."

"Aye, and the Peridhel master could heal her. He is well skilled in that."

Derneleg whistled, and at his call came two horses swiftly. He crouched down beside Arwen and lifted her to place her on the horse.

Arwen grasped the mane tightly. Six days passed. She kept close count. They had tried to get her to eat, to speak, but she could not. Everything felt wrong. Everywhere she looked there were shadows.

Her heart lifted when she saw the gates of Rivendell, and the darkness that had been upon her left for a little while.

It was Glorfindel who first saw her, riding down the mountain path, coming towards the Elven-home. "Arwen!" he exclaimed, surprise and gladness mixing in his blue eyes and fair face. She leapt into his arms, glad to feel the embrace of a dear friend once more. "We thought you were lost in the Redhorn Pass with…" He stopped suddenly.

"Nana?" she questioned, choking out the word.

"We cannot find her. I've have only just come back from the search." said Glorfindel slowly.

"Ada?"

"He is out, with your brothers."

"No!" screamed Arwen. "No! Thuringwethil will catch them!"

Glorfindel gazed at her in horror to hear the dreaded name spoke once more. "What are you saying?"

Arwen drew a shuddering breath. "Thuringwethil…..she seeks vengeance on the descendants of Lúthien. If she gets her claws on them she will bring her curse to them." She ripped off the necklace and pressed it into Glorfindel's hand. "Take this. She fears true-silver about ought else."

"If that is so, then you will wear it. Do not take it off!" He turned to his horse. "And stay within the boundaries of Imladris."

Arwen nodded, her heart stricken with a terror she could not prevent.


	4. The Soul of Thuringwethil

She dashed up through the gates. The fragrance of roses could not comfort her, for now she had others to fear for then herself. She knew she was far too weak to ride out and so she would sit here, useless, hopeless, helpless, to weep at the tidings that would come in an ill form.

Gentle inquiries came from all sides but she ignored them all. She could not answer them anyway.

The door closed behind her. Arwen sank down on the linen bed. Her heart was warped with fear. Shadows danced before her, winged shapes that would swoop down upon her but she could not tell if this was simply the visions of an over-wrought mind, or if this was truth. She clutched the mithril pendant in her hand and lay there.

A hand grasped her shoulder. Arwen screamed with fear, thrusting out on the pendant as her only defense. Darkness was everywhere.

A warm, familiar voice spoke by her ear. "Arwen, it is I."

The Undómiel drew a breath. She must have been sleeping. The night had come, the white jasmine and moonflowers outside her window perfuming the twilight air. A few stars shone in the violet sky.

She turned the speaker. It was Lindir. The musician looked exhausted. His rich chestnut hair was in a hasty braid, his deep eyes lined with fatigue and worry. Blood dripped down his face. "Lindir." she whispered, forcing the word to come to her. It seemed hardly easier.

He saw her struggle to speak, and relieved her. "I only just arrived, _mellon_. I was out searching for you and your mother."

"Dead." she whispered.

He stared at her in horror. "Dead? What do you mean?"

"Dead." she repeated. A dread came over her every time she tried to talk, but she must. "Dead. Our company was killed. I think _Nana_ is dead."

"Do you feel that she is dead?" asked Lindir softly, holding her hand.

"I-can't feel it." she whispered, clutching his hand in both her own. "A shadow lies between her and I that I never felt before. I don't understand it! Oh Lindir, everything feels…wrong. Twisted!" she sobbed into his chest. "It hurts me so much!"

He held her as she wept. "You know what we must do then?"

"What?" she whispered.

"Kill Thuringwethil." His voice was hard.

"How?" she asked, her eyes eager, but something in her soul shrank from the thought. It was as if shadow lurked there, as if Thuringwethil had implanted some of her own fëa into her, and now darkness tainted her. Was she seeing things through Thuringwethil's eyes, Arwen wondered. How they were twisted into the vampire's own vision?

It seemed to be growing stronger, every moment. The mithril that she had once clutched she found she had unconsciously dropped to her side and it lay forgotten on the bed.

A part of her was hungry, hungry with a desire she had never known. She wrenched herself from Lindir's side. "Lindir, look at me."

"I am."

She bit her lip, took a shuddering breath and spoke. "Lindir….I think that Thuringwethil put part of her fëa into me. It's turning to the shadow. I can feel it growing stronger, and stronger. I'm hungry, I shy away from mithril now, I do not want you to kill Thuringwethil. But you must do it. If Thuringwethil dies her soul will flee, and I hope that includes the part within me. Bring me with you. Do anything you must-bind me with mithril, but do it now!"

The musician was staring at her, but instead of repulsion she saw only the love and sorrow of a friend. "I will, Arwen. I promise. But how shall we kill this…curse?"

"I do not know. Mithril and steel should be enough." said Arwen. She found herself struggling to say the word mithril, and she unconsciously inching towards the part of the bed that lay in shadow. As the starlight flooded through the window in pure brilliance, she felt a growing fear, a tiny piece of ice implanted in her soul. But it was growing.


	5. Fuin Pen-eil!

She swallowed. Lindir had brought out two horses, laden with a few packs. "Are you ready?"

Arwen nodded, mounting the bay. By some great control of will she had strung on the mithril necklace. It hung heavy and cold around her throat.

The hoof beats beat a quick cadence on the path way. The pine hills were steep before them and dark in the night.

The stars cast baleful shadows, cold and bright.

"What time is it?" she asked suddenly. The starlight was beginning to hurt.

Lindir glanced at the westering moon. "I reckon an hour before midnight."

"Shall we travel by day?"

Lindir looked sharply at her, and his answer was slow in coming. "Yes."

"I do not wish too."

Lindir shrugged. "I am sorry, Arwen, but we must." With an abrupt change of subject and an uneasy glance in her direction he continued. "As-if you were one of Thuringwethil's kind, where would you fly to recover your strength?"

Arwen swallowed and looked down at the necklace glittering silver white in the stars. It was constricting, wrapping itself in slender coils around her neck. She pulled at it, and turned to Lindir, her voice coil.

"Is that so?" muttered Lindir.

Arwen winced at the pain in his tone. "Lindir, pay no heed to me!" she cried. "I-I-Oh, Lindir! I'm sorry!"

"I must pay heed to you, for I am your friend." replied Lindir softly. "But I think that on this journey, not all the suffering will be yours."

"No." returned Arwen, tears stinging her eyes.

Lindir sighed. "Arwen, I think I may be forced to do some unpleasant things to you. For which I am deeply sorry in advance."

"Understated, as always." returned Arwen with a light laugh.

Lindir smiled, a little mirth flashed across his grey-green eyes. "What do you know of vampire lore?" he asked at last, when the night breeze and steady clip of hooves had heightened into unbearable silence.

The trees shivered at the accursed word. A crimson leaf came fluttering down, damp with night dew and blood-red with autumn death.

Arwen's horse shied vehemently away from it. "I do not know much at all." she answered ruefully.

"I must confess I took a morbid interest in it." said Lindir. "For a while. Yet even to red about such evil creatures can greatly disturb the mind."

Arwen nodded. "I wonder that they let such writings in Imladris."

"I found them in a shadowy corner, parchments yellowed with the Ages. Even as I read them, darkness lurked into my heart and the sunlight seemed to dim."

Arwen bit her lip, and was silent. Lindir looked ahead. "I burned those scrolls. It hurt, for they were relics of ancient days, but they did no good."

"All of them?" whispered Arwen weakly.

"Yes, all. You may think me childishly weak, yet…." He shrugged. "Those things are burned, none the less, into my memory."

Arwen smothered a bitter laugh. Lindir, the gentle, handsome harper-learned in the lore of Thuringwethil and her kind. "As what?"

Lindir glanced at her once more, clearly uneasy. Arwen urged him on. "Why do they-we fear silver?

"They." said Lindir firmly. "Not we. They fear silver and true silver most of all, because it is to like the stars. The stars are as holy as they are evil. Though silver burns their outward body, starlight pierces their heart, their depraved and wicked heart, and it gives them such an agony they cannot bear it. Invoke the name of Elbereth upon them and they flinch away."

Arwen nodded.

"The traditional way to transfer the curse is biting, I believe, but if they desire a stronger servant with which to pass on the legacy, they with put part of their soul into their victims."

"I heard…..once, that that is what Morgoth did to Sauron." said Arwen hesitatingly.

Lindir frowned and she added defensively. "Well, if you were a Dark Lord, would you trust your servants, who are bound to be fickle, and would you really let the most powerful one come to Arda alone and unattended. No, I think not."

Lindir sighed. "it makes some amount of sense, but if it is in truth then Sauron-" He shuddered at the cursed name. "Can only be truly defeated once Morgoth is destroyed at the End."

Arwen groaned inwardly and they rode in silence. She kept her horse under the shadow of the trees, avoiding star or moon.

As the darkness of dawn came on, the shadow waked in her heart. The night breeze drifted Lindir's warm scent to her, and the hunger with her heightened as she cursed herself in every tongue she knew.

The pendant's heat began to grow, a fire upon her neck. She struggled, writhed and with a sudden scream that echoed ripped it off and threw it. Lindir caught it with a warrior's grace. "Arwen, put it back on."

"Never!"

"Put it on." said Lindir, his voice icy-cold.

They gazed at another in frigid defiance and they each saw someone different than what they had known before times.

Lindir saw a creature wholly changed. She was no longer the embodiment of the Evenstar, gentle, white and lovely, one who walked between the balance of day and night, hanging in the violet dusk. She was cold and bitter, beautiful and remote.

Arwen looked upon Lindir and saw a musician, a fearsome warrior…and tantalizing prey. An unholy hunger sought to devour her, only slaked by blood and death.

Lindir's soft voice came to her from far away. "Undómiel, put the necklace on."

It hit her heart in a place still soft, her soul recognized that name and bent towards it. "Ai!" she wailed. "No more, no more Evenstar! I am Fuin Pen-eil, Starless Night!"


	6. One in Soul

"Not yet, not yet. You are yet the Undómiel." whispered Lindir.

"Would that I could say that!" she wept. "But the curse of Thuringwethil grows within by the hour. Lindir I am hungry with a depraved hunger. Do anything you must-lead me in Arien's holy light." With a jerk she swung her horse by Lindir's beast. "Did you bring rope? Bind me. Bind my hands."

Lindir did as he was bid, thought the knots seemed almost too gentle. Arwen bent her head with an effort. "Put on the necklace. Now."

Lindir opened his hand. The hook that had fasted the clasp was bent and weakened. He reshaped it as well as he could and gently swung it over her head and fastened ti firmly. The mithril pendant settled below her throat and instantly began to burn. "Care not what I do. Do not take it off." she hissed through gritted teeth.

Lindir nodded and led Arwen's horse along the forest path. Young sunbeams came dappled shadowy gold. Arwen bit her lip till blood trickled down. THe sunlight glinted upon her black head. Lindir stared ahead, willing the tears to flee but they rolled in betrayal down his cheeks.

Creatures of the dark ever hate the light, most of all Arien's, for she is far too holy and bright, and it burns them. Even as Thuringwethil's curse laid a stronger hold, so the pain waxed. Sometimes the shadows wholly shrouded her heart, sometimes they lessened. But everywhere her gaze rested, every memory she held in heart, was twisted in some fashion she could not explain, yet gradually she grew accustomed to it, and she remembered nothing else, save a faint thought that sunlight should not hurt her, nor true-silver. But even this began to fade, even as the pain upon her throat began to flame with an increasing agony. Lindir could bear it no longer. He took the necklace off, and clutched it tight in his own hand.

They went out without stop, but as dusk began to fall Lindir searched for a place easily defensible, for he thought that Thuringwethil would come to reclaim she that carried her soul and her curse. The sun fell without any glory and the hills were streaked with a brazen red, nor did the twilight come cloaked in violet skies and silver stars.

Lindir swung Arwen down from her horse. The Elf -maid stood deathly pale and stiff. Night came in silence. Arwen sat huddled by a tree and made no movement. Lindir sat above her, perched in the branches, his hand upon the hilt of his sword. The half crescent of the waning moon shone dimly, casting shadows in the blackness instead of light.

Lindir straightened as a shadow darkened in the face of the moon for a fleeting second. He landed in the dew damp leaves without a sound.

Arwen had not moved from the place he had left her, but her blue eyes, now slitted like a cat's, followed his every move.

The night air was sharp and chill, but now a foul wind whistled by his face, the sweet smell of death and decay. He heard a soft sound behind him and saw Arwen standing, a slight smile on her face.

"My daughter." crooned a voice that came above them on the night. A deathly cold and a wrenching fear was upon Lindir, but Arwen stood unmoved, gazing upwards.

"Arwen!" he hissed, shaking her.

"Pen-eil!" whispered Thuringwethil.

Arwen stood still. No battle was fought in her. She was only waiting for her mother to reclaim her. Finally she spoke. "I am here."

There was the sound of bat like wings and Thuringwethil landed beside her. "Daughter."

"Mother." whispered Arwen. Her eyes glittered. Thuringwethil smiled and held out her hand. "Have you yet tasted blood, Pen-eil?" Her eyes went to the scorch mark on Arwen's throat. "True-silver." she snarled, a gleam of hatred flashing in the emerald eyes. "Come." she said to Arwen. "We shall drink the blood of the one who did this to you."

Lindir had swiftly found a place in the tree, clutching the necklace and the sword in his hands. Lindir was renowned as a clever and strategic warrior, from Lindon to Imladris, yet vampires were an evil and terror far beyond any, save the strongest of the Blessed Realms. For once the spitefully charming Glorfindel would be a welcome sight, thought Lindir dryly. He could still hear their whispering voices below him, and then a strange sound, which he assumed was Arwen's bonds being ripped. Thuringwethil spread her wings. "Lindir!" came a soft voice that had once been Undómiel's and was Fuin Pen-eil's. It was soft and enchanting, dripping with honeyed wickedness.

Lindir set his jaw and said nothing, yet it called him.


	7. Arien! Arien!

"Here is he." whispered a voice by his ear, sending an icy dagger of fear hilt-deep to his heart. Deathless hands pushed him forward. He stumbled off the branch and landed heavily before Arwen's feet. Half-stunned, Lindir bolted upright.

Fuin Pen-eil stared at him, and he saw no trace now of the daughter of Tinúviel, only the child of Thuringwethil.

Bat wings hissed above him, cold wind brushed his neck. He rolled in the leaves, and stood, crouching like a hunted beast.

The two vampires faced. Pen-eil was shivering with delight; Thuringwethil was more controlled. "Wait, Pen-eil!" she said suddenly. "Wait."

Arwen's eyes blazed with hunger. She crouched, the supple Elven grace manifold in the shadows. "Why?" she hissed.

A slow smile spread across Thuringwethil's face; her eyes glittered. "Let him go. He must bring a message to Elrond. Tell him that his Evenstar has faded. Tell him that she is no longer his. She is my daughter! Tell him that Thuringwethil's vengeance is complete!" Her voice rose with piercing evil, it sang a song of cruel delight that echoed in the blackness. "Go now!" she snarled at Lindir. "Take one horse."

Arwen waved her hand dismissively. "Take both. I want not the blood of beasts. Elven blood smells sweeter." she added maliciously.

Lindir did not flinch, but Thuringwethil soothed her child. "Let him go, Pen-eil. Dúnedain wander oft abroad. They have some Elvish blood yet."

Arwen glared at Lindir balefully as he slowly retreated to the horses, glad that they-and he-would be spared for the moment. Lonely hoof beats beat a sad rhythm along the forest path. Lindir's mind was turning as fast as his heart was beating. Only those of the Blessed Realm could stand against the cursed _Maia_ and her brood. Galadriel…Glorfindel, perhaps a few more. But where would they be?

Galadriel and her Elves would searching far abroad, as would Glorfindel. It would only be by divine intervention that he could hope to meet any ,scattered as they were across all the long leagues of Arda. He looked for the hopeful springing of the morn and saw no light, no sign.

"Curse Thuringwethil and her darkness." he snarled.

"Indeed." said a voice in mellifluous agreement.

Lindir's horse drew up sharply. "Glorfindel!" he exclaimed in delight.

"Ah Lindir. For once you sound pleased to see me." said Glorfindel wryly, coming over the small hillock.

"Yes! Glorfindel, I need your help."

"Of what nature?" asked the golden-haired Elf. "I assume a problem came up with Lady Arwen, the way you left so foolishly. Is it of delicate nature, for I can think of no other explanation to do anything like that."

"Glorfindel!" shouted Lindir, and the pain and grief that he been welling up burst out and he cursed Glorfindel and his levity to the Void and beyond. The Noldo stood unflinching through the bitter tirade, and when Lindir finished he laid a hand on the young Elf's shoulder. "So, where is Arwen?"

Lindir sighed, astonished at his gentleness. "Arwen is dead. Fuin Pen-eil is now the beautiful daughter of Thuringwethil."

"Ilúvatar." whispered the other Elf and Lindir had never heard Glorfindel so sad, so subdued…so weak.

He swallowed and looked out. Hooves galloped and he stared through the icy darkness. With a quick surge of strength someone pulled him off his horse and held him tightly. "Lindir, how dare you!"

Lindir smiled. Large silver-grey eyes stared accusingly up at him. "Sister, I am sorry." he said penitently. Celloth sighed. "It is so dark." she said, her voice echoing in the silent shadows.

"Indeed. Thuringwethil's darkness over flows her heart and turn day to night." said a cold voice behind them.

"Glorfindel, is that you?" asked Celloth, peering behind Lindir. "And cannot Arien defeat the darkness? How heavy it ways upon my heart." She turned once more towards the East, and suddenly cried in delight, clapping her hands with glee. "Arien has indeed conquered! Oh, see the light!"

Far away, the shadowy fringes were lightening. Even as they watched, spears of sunlight stabbed through the darkness. A westering wind strove against the clouds and overcame them as the shadows fled with a wraith-like wail, and Arien's golden light flooded over the forest. Celloth's black hair blew back from her uplifted face. "Indeed like a naked flame, beautiful in the fullness of her splendor! Arien! Arien!"


	8. No More My Mother

**Guest replies. Gray Day-It is rather bizarre, isn't it? Thank you so much for your kind words! I'm so glad you've enjoyed it this far.**

 **Indeed, that would be a massive shocker, but we'll see, we'll see.  
**

Lindir shushed her quickly. "Celloth, I delight to see the light as well, but evil things still lurk here."

Celloth inclined her head in comprehension. "You still have not answered me, brother? Why did you leave so suddenly, and without telling me?"

"Because I was foolish." admitted Lindir. "I did not want others to get hurt."

Celloth sighed and looked heavenwards. "It seems I have that excuse far too many times. Lindir, I am your sister, for Vairë's sake! I share your dangers!"

"You are still a little sapling. You cannot weather all he has been through." said Glorfindel gently.

Celloth's grey eyes clouded like a storm, and her jaw tensed. "I think we had better leave now. Do we know what we are doing?" she added, glancing at her brother questioningly.

Lindir nodded. "We must kill Thuringwethil."

"And Arwen?" asked Celloth.

"We must kill her too." said Glorfindel, his voice clipped and hard.

Celloth blanched, her face as pale as winter frost. "Y-you…"

Glorfindel put a hand on her shoulder. "Hush. Lindir, where would they be?"

The _ellon_ shook his head in mute despair. Kill Arwen! They must be another way, there had to be!

"The Redhorn Pass. We will go the Redhorn Pass." said Glorfindel at last, helping Celloth mount her horse. She sat there, white with horror.

"Why?" asked Lindir at last. His limbs were frozen, he fought to move.

"Lady Celebrían is most likely there, Lindir. Thuringwethil will keep her alive."

"Thuringwethil has no pity. She will slay the Silver Lady as soon as look at her."

A bitter smile flashed over Glorfindel's face. "Not for pity's sake, but for torment's sake. The accursed will let Celebrían see what her once-daughter now is. That would be agony enough to kill her, if Thuringwethil does not let Arwen do that."

"They said they going to search out the Dúnedain." replied Lindir at last.

Glorfindel looked at him pityingly. "Ah Lindir, here is the very peak of simplicity. You believe vampires to be truthful in all matters?"

Lindir shook his heart. His heart felt numb. It was a silent journey, though nearer and nearer towered the three peaks of Caradhras, Celebdil and Fanuidhol. Autumn's glory had passed by the time they stood upon the foot of Caradhras, and bitter rain and wind swept over the three travelers.

Celloth glanced at Glorfindel, using the drenched hem of her cloak to wipe water from her face. "So, we just dance around until we find an Orc-cave, eh?"

"And then dance into it." retorted Glorfindel.

"Dear Manwë." muttered Lindir.

A cruel laugh echoed through the stony passage. "Fuin Pen-eil, this way! Do you still desire Elf-blood?"

The once Evenstar nodded eagerly, her beautiful face deathly in the flickering light of crimson torches. "Yes! The woman did little to sate me."

They had found a lonely Dúnadan woman, but her blood was watered with that of mortals, and no longer even hinted at the Númenórean part of her. Edain blood was bitter almost. They had killed the woman first, for Thuringwethil had said that she would do no good as a vampire, but they had not yet filled themselves before many had come, among them Arahad, Chieftain of the Dúnedain and chased them away with silver and steel.

Thuringwethil glared balefully back towards the entrance. "That is because of Arahad, curse him! I would we had caught him instead of that wretched _fíriel_."

"Whose blood is it?" asked Pen-eil hungrily.

"You may have heard of her." said Thuringwethil with smile. "The Silver Lady of Lórien and Imladris. Her name is Celebrían."

For a moment Thuringwethil feared she had pushed her bounds, for Pen-eil's face changed. An almost imperceptible softness came to it at the mention of the name. The hunger faded from her glittering eyes….but only for a moment. Then she shrugged. "I have heard of her. What of it?"

Thuringwethil shook her black head. "Nothing, Pen-eil. Save that she will try to persuade you to show mercy."

Pen-eil laughed. "Mercy! What is that?"

Thuringwethil nodded approvingly. "Now you understand. Here we are."

In a dark cavern, lit only by one flickering torch sat a huddled, graceful figure. Her ankles were chained to the wall, and cascades of tangled and blood-stained silver hair hid her face. She looked up at their entrance, and first glanced in horror at Thuringwethil, who had wrapped her black bat wings around like a cloak, and then at Arwen. "Daughter!" she cried, in mingled fear and relief and leapt to her feet, only to stumble as the chains dragged her back.

Arwen glanced at her in consternation. "What?"

In the shadowy light, it took a mother's eye to recognize the hardness that had swept over the familiar and much-loved features, but any ear could hear the change in the voice. It was cold as ice and as cruel as steel that still dripped blood.

Celebrían stepped back, her hands over her mouth. "Oh Ilúvatar." she breathed, and both vampires flinched. "You hell creature!" screamed Celebrían, turning upon Thuringwethil. "Of all the evils in this blood-stained world, surely this is the greatest!"

Thuringwethil inclined her head, emerald eyes glittering. "Indeed."

The Silver Lady turned back to the daughter that was once her own. "Arwen." she pleaded, gazing into the stony eyes. "Arwen, please!"

Pen-eil blinked, as if hearing a name long disused. "Arwen." she mused. "I was once called that. But no more. I am Pen-eil."

Celebrían shook her head in desperation. "No! You are Arwen, daughter of Lúthien, Tinúviel dancing on earth again! But you are my daughter as well!"

Pen-eil shook her head, and then turned back to Thuringwethil. "What now, _mother_?" she asked spitefully, glancing at with some delight at the horror stricken face of Celebrían.

Thuringwethil stepped forward, and the Elf Lady did not recoil, but stood firm against the terror that emanated from her. "She is not your daughter any more, Noldo." said the accursed, her eyes shining as she saw the despair and anguish in Celebrían's blue eyes. "You told me to come and claim her, and I have done just that. She is my daughter now, forever, and you can never get her back."

Celebrían closed her eyes and reeled against the wall. Thuringwethil smiled. "Pen-eil, you wished for Elf-blood. Here it is, helpless."

 **A\N. Arahad is the great, great, ect., ect., father of Aragorn.**


	9. Only Silence

The Elves were forced to all but crawl along the narrow, stinking tunnel. It was a winding maze of many interwoven passages, delved by the course of time or other, fouler means. Even to the Elves it seemed hopeless to ever find what they sought.

As Lindir glanced at his sister, he saw a wild look in her grey eyes. Her face was drawn in with a mounting terror. Above the stench of _yrch_ and blood, they suddenly caught a sweeter smell of damp decay. Glorfindel paused. "Yes, they are here."

The words echoed ominously around the silent stone.

There was a scream wrought of despair that pierced their ears and their hearts, and then murmurs became perceptible, but the sound was so distorted by echoes they did not understand the words.

They moved swiftly now, and came upon the mouth of a great cavern. Thuringwethil stood with her wings folded about her. Pen-eil was standing rigid and still.

Beyond them Celebrían leaned against the wall, huddled like a wounded beast in utter misery.

Pen-eil turned upon them. Thuringwethil looked round and Lindir saw a glint of horror in her slit eyes "From Valimar!" she snarled.

A surge of icy fear swept over them. Celloth wavered and Lindir held her tight, thrusting out the mithril pendant. Pen-eil shied vehemently away from it, a vicious look of hatred upon her face, and Celloth blanched.

Thuringwethil stood facing Glorfindel, darkness and light. Pen-eil was crouching, unsure but hungry. Celloth stiffened as tumult came to their ears, far away battle that was swiftly growing nearer. Lindir's heart caught in his throat. Celebrían looked up, hope and fear warring in her eyes. "My sons." she whispered.

In that brief second Thuringwethil sprang like a cat **.** Glorfindel ducked under her spreading wings and in a fluid motion threw her against the wall. Thuringwethil rose, slowly now, black hair twisted and tangled around her. Celloth broke from Lindir's grasp and seized the torch from its metal holding.

Pen-eil watched her with contempt, unheeding of the fire.

Nearer and nearer came the cries of war and the clash of steel upon steel. The screams of Orcs rang deafeningly, but above them were the clear voices of Elves until at last they came upon the group.

Two Elves stood there, tall and fearful in the shadows. Dark blood dripped from their swords and stained their armor. With terrible speed Thuringwethil grabbed the hand of Pen-eil and broke through the ring of Elves. Then she was gone with an unearthly speed, disappearing into the shadows.

The sons of Elrond dashed to their mother. Elrohir held her as Elladan hewed her chains. Yet Celebrían knew no freedom and she lay unfeeling and near to death in Elrohir's arms.

Elladan turned to Glorfindel, his face grim. "What were those creatures?"

"One is known to you as Thuringwethil." replied Glorfindel. He paused, and laid a hand on Elladan's shoulder. "There is no time to soften the blow. The other was once called Arwen Evenstar."

There was silence. The sounds of Orcs were dulled to their ears. Elrohir's hand was frozen in the motion of moving Celebrían's silver hair from her face. Elladan's face was white. "How?" he whispered, his voice harsh with pain. "How, Glorfindel?! How!"

"Thuringwethil." replied the Elf, as Elrohir's face convulsed with horror; he trembled as he lifted his mother's slender body.

They formed a circle around him and pressed forward, swords glinting dimly in the bloody light of Celloth's torch. There were vague rumors of dangers that resounded around the walls but they met nothing. The cave roof sloped sharply done and Elrohir struggled greatly to carry Celebrían. At last Glorfindel halted at the entrance. A bitter wind buffeted him back. Celloth came behind him, huddled against the force of the gale. "Our horses are here yet." she murmured in surprise.

Elladan stalked silently forward and retrieved the horses. Lindir stood by Elrohir. "Let me hold the Lady while you mount."  
Elrohir's voice was icily courteous. "No. She is my mother. I will carry her."

Lindir bowed and retreated into his owns thoughts as they rode. He was pulled out by a scream.

"Nana, Nana." whispered Elrohir. "Do not fear."

Celebrían gazed at him with wild, horror-stricken eyes. "No! No! Let me free!" she cried, writhing in his grasp. "You too are cursed!"  
"No curse, Nana." soothed Elrohir. "I am yet free."

"My daughter!" wailed Celebrían, seemingly heedless of her son's words.

"We will heal her, I promise." said Elladan, as Elrohir shifted his mother's silver head so it was cradled on his shoulder. Storm clouds gathered as they made their way down the narrow mountains and with the starless nightfall came a blackness far darker. Celloth huddled by Lindir. "The Lady Celebrían's mind is wakened." she murmured, her cloak hood hiding her face.

"Alas! Only the Válar know what hellish torments she suffered." replied Lindir sadly. He glanced through the shadows at the wrecked body of the once stately Lady. The glittering hair was tangled and raggedly shorn, her garments tattered by vile claws. The blue eyes were dim, pale face lined with blood and on her right cheek a deep wound ran down in a jagged line. She murmured snatches of bitter words, her mind fevered with pain and he saw Elrohir's face drawn with grief. At last the Elrondion could bear it no longer. Holding Celebrían in one arm, he sifted through his pouch with the other.

"Wait, brother." Elladan's cool voice cut like a knife in the brooding silence. "If it comes to a battle, it would be wiser if Nana is not senseless."

"She is senseless." said Elrohir, gesturing sadly. "May she not forget her pain for a while? And if it comes to a battle, she will be mistaken for the dead and not bring doom upon herself with mad ravings."

Elladan sighed and said nothing. "Here Nana. Eat this."

"No." It was the first word Celebrían had said evenly.

"It will bring you sleep."

"I do not want sleep." she said, her tone clear and resigned.

Elrohir caressed his mother's slender hand. "Please?"

"No, Elrohir. I will not speak, if that is what you fear." she said, her voice still lucid but her words broken.

"I love you, Nana." he said softly.

There was silence.


	10. Let Us Die Together

It was Lindir who reigned up his horse first. "There are others."

Glorfindel raised his head. "They come on the wings of the storm."

Indeed, hoofbeats were heard, swift, desperate on the stone but muffled by the darkness. They rode to meet them, and then Elrohir gave a cry. "Ada! Ada!"

The Elf-Lord's horse stopped of its own will and Elrond dismounted. But his gaze did not go first to his sons, but to the pale body of his wife. With a groan, he took her, but she lay still and made no motion. "What happened?" he asked, his voice a trembling whisper.

"The _yrch_." said Elladan grimly. "But that is not what we hunt."

Gently Elrond gave his wife back to Elrohir and then turned to Lindir, who had waited in an agony of apphrension. Though Lindir still stayed astride his horse, the Lord seemed to have grown in his fury. "Where is my daughter?" he asked, his voice a death-calm.

"I do not know."

The shout echoed over the stones. "You _lost_ her!"

"We have all lost her, Ada." said Elrohir, his voice soft in despair. "Thuringwethil has given Arwen her curse. We now hunt them."

Elrond reeled. The light in his grey eyes was quenched, as stars that had suddenly entered the Void. He stumbled, and would have fallen into the abyss over which the narrow path overlooked, had not Lindir swiftly caught him. "You ride to kill her?" he asked hoarsely.

Glorfindel bowed his head in solemn assent, but Elladan cried out in desperation. "Ada! No! Can you not heal her!"

"There is no healing for the curse of Thuringwethil." said Glorfindel softly. Elrohir said nothing, his breath short and harsh in the dark, but Elladan dismounted and threw down his sword. It echoed, a metallic _clang_. "I will not kill her!"

"I will."

They turned to Elrohir. His face was white and hard. "I will kill her." he repeated. "But first, I will kill Thuringwethil."

Elladan rounded on his brother. "You will kill our sister!" he screamed. "What are you!"

Elrohir did not recoil. "Arwen was dead long ago, _muindor-nin_.* I only slay Pen-eil."

"She is our sister." hissed Elladan.

Elrohir shook his head. "If you will shrink from the battle, take _Nana_ with you."

Elladan regarded his brother with cold anger. "I never said I would shrink from the battle. I said I would not follow the path of a Kinslayer."

Elrohir's jaw tensed, but he mounted his horse and with a soft word spurred her on, wrapped a dark thought scarcely blacker than the night around them.

Celebrían lay in Elrond's arms, pale and cold, unconscious of the tears shed for her or her daughter.

It was Elrohir's steed that first landed amidst the foothills, but she reared up with a sharp whinny of terror. "Althos, Hírailë."*

Hírailë was trembling, but she went forward, picking a cautious way amongst the turf.

Elladan grabbed his brother's arm. "Listen to me." he snarled in a low voice. "Kill Thuringwethil first. Please."

"Why?" asked Elrohir, shaking off his brother's hold.

Elladan stiffened. "Because mayhaps once Thuringwethil's soul is fled, Arwen will be restored to us."

Elrohir smiled coldly. "It is a vain hope."

"Any hope." said Elladan looking at the starless sky.

"Brother." added Elrohir softly and held out his hand.

Elladan took it. "Brother."

"Their reek betrays them." said Glorfindel, and the twins looked up. Faint on the night air, came that now familiar scent of decay.

Barely, their Elven-eyes could perceive two tall figures standing upon a faraway hill, as if carven by stone. Then one moved. A piercing shriek split the night as Thuringwethil spun into the sky and was lost to the clouds.

Pen-eil did not follow, nor could she. The Elves had formed together. Elrond stayed in the center, holding Celebrían, the rest had made a tight circle, sword and bow alike readied.

"Where is she?" whispered Celloth. Lindir shook his head. "In the sky."

"No! Pen-eil, you fool!" his sister hissed.

Lindir looked towards the hill. At first he hoped it was some trick of the darkness, but as they neared it he found it was indeed empty.

" _Yrch_."

The word rang around the ring in unforgiving defeat.

"How do you know?" asked Celloth, praying it was false.

Elladan laughed bitterly. "You cannot hear the trample of their foul feet? They come at the call of their mistress."

"We are doomed. Death is upon us." answered Celloth, gazing at the son of Elrond, and for the first Lindir saw something he had never before perceived, a spark of tenderness in the eyes of his sister, verily mirrored by Elladan.

"Then let us die together."

*My brother

*No fear, Hírailë.


	11. Child of Thuringwethil

**A\N. Guest replies~**

 **Grey Day-Wow, thank you for all your kind words! I do struggle to get the proper** **archaic sense, and I'm so glad you like it.**

 **You're welcome. :)  
**

 **LovethisStory~I feel odd typing out this name, but I am extremely flattered. Here's more, and I hope you like it.**

Celloth smiled weakly. She was not skilled in the laws of hand-to-hand combat, and her face was drawn with apprehension. Elrond's voice cut like a knife. "Put the horses in a ring and do _not_ dismount." He nodded towards Celloth. "You have a bow."

She nodded in assent. "Yes, my Lord."

"Get on my horse. Your only task is to shoot, and heed that my wife does not fall."

Celloth quickly dismounted and Elrond took her place. "Let us go."

Keeping their steeds in a close formation, they went forward. As of yet they had seen no enemy, only heard the rumors of _yrch_. But a mounting terror was upon them, and a chill, for they knew that Thuringwethil lurked in the clouds, and Pen-eil was watching them with an eagerness for blood.

They reached the hilltop where the vampires had once stood, and found it desolate of all life, only the murky darkness that wrapped itself around all like a shroud, stifling the breath, quailing the heart's courage.

"Ride on." said Glorfindel, his voice calm.

Elrohir looked back and saw through the night figures even darker, and their cries soon became visible to all. "The _yrch_ are upon us." he said.

The clouds split asunder as Thuringwethil landed before them, her white robe tattered in the rising wind. For a wind had come, no wind of ill fortune, but it was a wind from the West. But still all was dark. Yet it seemed to the Eldar that the wind gave them life and light beyond that which they could see. The horses reared in terror, whichever way they turned with frantic eyes there seemed no escape, and though the riders did their best to calm them. "Where is my daughter?" asked Elrond, his voice soft with death.

Thuringwethil laughed, a shrill sound that mocked them. "Did not this Elf tell you? She is my daughter now, Peredhel, and that she shall remain."

"If you are dead, your soul and your curse will flee from her." was Elrond's swift reply.

It was then they saw the first flicker of fear in the cat-green eyes, but it was swiftly masked. "You cannot kill me. I am one of the _Maiar_."  
Elrond laughed and scorned her in return. "Ah, even they can be slain, though they be like to the Ainur. And I have much to repay you."

"Others of my kind have been slain, but not I. They were weak in the light. I have been strong in the dark."

"Melian was of the light, and she wove enchantments round her daughter not even _you_ could break." said Elrond, his fair face hard and cold.

Thuringwethil's eyes flashed, her mask shattered, and for a moment they saw a creature they had never dreamed of, deformed by cruelty, wracked with gnawing guilt and bitterness, leaf-green eyes gazing sadly out at them. And then it was gone. The mask was healed, the mocking tone of the vampire resumed its cruel ring, but there was still a hint of uncertainty. "Is there any testimony that I tried to break them?" she asked.

"You yourself are the testimony." replied the Elf-Lord.

Thuringwethil stiffened, her wings that before had draped behind her like a cloak were now spread out, ready to fly. "And then why did I not try to kill Elwing? Why did I not try to kill you? No spells were woven around you, not even the love of a mother."

Elrond's jaw tensed. "Because your vengeance would not be complete until you had the very likeness of Lúthien. You did not want to slay her, you wanted to torment her into your own image."

Thuringwethil smiled. "Indeed I did. And I have, son of Lúthien. She is wholly given over to the darkness now. Look to the left, and see if it is not so."

They did, involuntarily. Thuringwethil's words were uttered with a command that must be obeyed, and Elrond gave a groan that was torn from his heart. His daughter was no longer his daughter. The Evenstar was Starless, and she was Thuringwethil's child.


	12. See the Light

It was Elrohir who broke first as Thuringwethil mocked their pain. Swifter than eye could see, he snatched his bow. An arrow sung death. Out of instinct, Thuringwethil spread her wings, rolled to one side, but the arrow pierced through the membrane. Blood appeared on the white tatters of her dress. Her flight was not as swift now, she kept the injured wing curled to her side, ungainly and heavy. They heard her voice twisted into the foul speech of the _yrch_ , and shuddered.

Elladan prayed, passionate, despairing pleas as he watched his sister on the hilltop. And she was watching him. He looked her in the eye. Something softer came over her face. "Arwen. Arwen, do you remember me?"

She was coming towards them, her steps slow, dream-like. He heard Glorfindel draw his sword, and turned viciously upon the Vanya. "What are you doing, you fool?"

"She is coming." returned Glorfindel evenly. "She is not who you think she is, Elladan. Don't do this."

Elladan shook his head and dismounted, vaguely aware of the tremors in the ground, but his sister was here, not Pen-eil, not even Undómiel, just Arwen, the child with whom he had played and had comforted during a storm.

She was standing within reach of him now, hesitating. He reached out his hand. "Arwen, please…"

Her blue eyes flamed to life, and Elladan had a heart-beat when he saw the disguise that had been forcibly retained ripped away. She was a vampire. Nothing noble, nothing beautiful was left. It was a trap. He waited for death, but the solid sound of metal hitting flesh came to his ears.

Pen-eil lay on the grass some feet away, curled up where Elrohir's vambrace had impacted with her stomach. Blood was smeared over her mouth, her own, Elladan saw, as she coughed. Elrohir's sword was drawn, but his hands were not steady. Like a beast, she scrambled away on all fours, her eyes wide with fear, the beautiful grace of the Evenstar reduced to a pitiful, cowering wreck, crawling, torn between terror and hunger.

Elrohir's sword came down. Pen-eil was swifter that he reckoned, for he judged by Arwen's skill alone, and that no longer came into play. She rolled aside and the blade buried itself deep in the grass. Weak whispers came to them above the rumor of coming war. "No….do not kill her….still my daughter…" Celebrían moaned, tossing wildly in the burning claws of fever. Celloth had covered her eyes in horror.

Glorfindel leapt off his horse, but Thuringwethil would not let her child go so easily. She dropped from the clouds, shielding Pen-eil with one outstretched wing, and slowly retreated, even as the two Elves bore upon her, swords drawn, but a circle of terror seemed drawn around her, a line they could not cross. Darkness flowed into their minds. The faces of loved ones came to their hearts, but they were twisted, dead, as Thuringwethil focused all her power upon them.

Elrohir shook his head, as if trying to clear it, but all he saw was Celebrían, arms outstretched, face frozen in eternal horror. He saw hundred faces. He recognized each and knew none.

Thuringwethil's face remained emotionless, but there was cold gleam of triumph hardly visible in the darkness. She had him. Now to use him….

Glorfindel was stronger. The ties of his heart could not be easily used against him, but Elrohir was now filled with hate. And in that hate, Thuringwethil could control him.

"Come here."

"I will kill you."

The vampire Queen tilted her head in scorn. "Kill me? I doubt it." She had stopped moving, and was waiting, shoulders tensed with the deathly grace of a predator.

Glorfindel had seized Elrohir's arm with an iron grip, and wrenched him back to the horses. "Get on. Now! Let us ride! _Tulé nin!_ " And he spoke in the ancient tongue of the Blessed Realms, and the horses followed him, up the sloping bowl of the dell. Behind the Orcs raged, and followed, but Elven-steeds go a little swifter than even the wolves of Angband. But not as swift as arrows. Their doom lay on the lip of the dell. Their horses stopped sharply. They were surrounded.

"Form together!" Glorfindel's strong voice cut through despair. "Swords out! Celloth, you must begin!"

Celloth's face was ashen pale, and trembling fingers fit arrows to the bow string. Though she had many, Thuringwethil had assembled here all the Orcs from the Misty Mountains.

They came upon the little company as a black tidal wave. Wolves snarled around them, the horses reared in terror. Darkness prevailed.

Elrohir hewed down an Orc. _Parry, jab, lunge, repeat._ The snarling maw of a great wolf leapt at him. Elladan's blade cut it down. His hands were wet with blood, some of which was his own. He could feel it running down his cheek. His arms were growing tired, the light Elven-blade seemed unwieldly. _Parry, jab, lunge, repeat._

Elladan held up his vambrace, deflecting an arrow aimed for his head. He half-turned to see Celloth behind him, her grey eyes slitted, black hair tangled with blood. She was aiming for the sky, and he took the chance to look. Bat wings beat the clouds into a heavy storm, and stirred up the masses below. "Ilúvatar, guide it." she whispered and took the shot. The first arrow missed, but Celloth proved quicker than the fallen Maia, and she sent her next arrow flying before Thuringwethil, in folly or pride, had moved. With a horrible shriek, the vampire fell to the ground. The Orcs parted for her. She was trembling. Blood stained her face. The yew bow bent once more, but Thuringwethil rolled, and was gone beyond even Elven-range.

Celloth hissed under her breath and drew back.

Celebrían's blue eyes were clearing, and volumes of horror were left unspoken in the azure depths. The fever was passing, and Celloth wished it had not, for the desperate mother, still half in delirium was struggling, and the _elleth_ found it near impossible to hold onto the Elf-Queen. They were moving slowly , fighting an upwards way, hoping to gain the higher ground, but all the evils that could spawn neath the caves of the Misty Mountains seemed centered here, and Thuringwethil's malice guided her forces, and the Elves would be crushed neath the tread of iron darkness any moment.

Then a light shone. Not from the sky, still wreathed in clouds, it came from a higher hilltop. There was silence. The howls of wolves and the clamor of Orcs ceased for one second as they looked up. Warriors were bearing down upon them, and at their head was Galadriel the Warrior-Lady, fearful as Artanis of the Elder Days, and Celeborn the Silver Lord.

The hosts wailed in horror, but all their dark hope was not yet last, for even with the Elves of Lothlórien, they still outnumbered all of the Fair Folk.

It was the last thing Celloth saw upon this earth as she turned, eyes shining with hope, but an Orc arrow sung her death, stray or not, and she fell.


	13. Vanquished

**A\N. I would rate this chapter a** _ **T**_ **. It's intense (at least by my standards; it was hard to write).**

The Elves came, turning the tide with as swift arrows sung death to their foes. The _yrch_ raged, but could do nothing in the face of such unstoppable anger. Elladan staggered upright, and he did not look to where Celloth lay. The pommel of his sword was cutting into his hands as he clung to it, but slowly a cold, masterful fury came upon him and gave strength to his limbs. Thuringwethil was wounded. She held still the upper hand, but it was fading, even as her wings were crippled. He searched the crushing masses that were slowly retreating towards the North.

"There!" Celeborn's commanding voice broke above the shrill grating of steel upon steel, and Elladan turned to his grandfather. "The one who you seek is there." repeated the Silver Lord, pointing with his sword towards a small knoll, surrounding by the raging Orcs. Thuringwethil had retreated there, and stood watching, her useless wings folded about her like a shadowy cloak, an arcane figure of forgotten power, a harbinger of doom, endowed with ruthless grace and endless cruelty. Elladan dug his sword into the turf, the metal quillons icy to his touch and drew in a deep breath. The Firstborn of Ilúvatar did not love death, but for his sister, he would risk it. Elrohir's stern voice seemed leagues away, though he heard his tone mingled in the battle cry of the Elves.

The Orcs were milling drifts without a master, and it was without hardship he fought his way to the mound. Thuringwethil was waiting for him. Pen-eil stood not far behind, watching with delight the bloodshed. The fallen _Maia_ made the first move. Pouncing, she seized his baldric and with a surge of strength, wrenched it across his throat and twisted around and around. Elladan staggered for a footing, but Thuringwethil possessed a strength that surpassed his and a terror that chilled the blood and froze the mind. His feet barely touched the ground. He clawed at the leather wrapped round his neck, desperation growing and mounting into a hundred thoughts of death. His head grew light, even as he gasped for breath, his eyes swam. His voice was not his own as he choked. "Arwen…please."

Pen-eil was watching, and he prayed what he had soon was true, a different look, a slight softening of the features. Slowly, she rose from where she had been sitting with her arms hugged around her knees, standing with languid grace. "Let him go."

Thuringwethil let him drop with a such a pull he nearly fainted, though she still retained the iron hold upon his baldric. Her tone was low and menacing. " _What_?"

"You heard me." said Arwen coldly, her tone as ringing as steel. " _Let my brother go…..now._ "

Elladan slumped to the ground, pulling the belt away from his neck and swallowed in the cold air for a brief second before he staggered upright. Thuringwethil seemed bewildered; a wildness in her eyes as one who has laid schemes for a millennia, and now, at the last moment, they finally failed. But the battle was no done. Pen-eil was not wholly Arwen, and Thuringwethil knew this and cast her whole hope upon it. "Why do you suddenly turn to him? He did not help you." They were dangerous words with no firm ground, and the Queen knew it, for the bond of love cannot be broken so easily or with such false sayings. Still, she was mad with rage and she no longer possessed her subtle persuasiveness of yore.

"Help me with what?" asked Arwen, her brows drawn together.

Elladan stumbled to his feet, even as Thuringwethil perceived herself in a cleft stick of her own cutting. Footsteps were behind him, silent on the bloody turf, and then a hand clasped his shoulder. Elrohir stood there, doubled over, his breathing hard, and in his hand was clutched the silver necklace. He coughed as he spoke, and Elladan saw with horror blood dripped down a large gash in his face and dried blood stained his vambrace. "L-Lindir gave this to us."

Elladan nodded. The full force of Thuringwethil's devilish gaze was turned upon them again, and she recoiled slightly at the true-silver pendant dangling from the chain. Pen-eil was silent, though a flitting change seemed to pass through her, even as the darkness lessened, and a slight wind stirred the heavy air that reeked of carnage. In the black sea, the Ring of Adamant shone like the gathered lights of many stars upon a clear pool, unreflecting on the dull sheen of Orc-hewn armor.

Elladan lifted his sword, and then cursed himself for all his folly. Though Thuringwethil could not end her ruses in success, she would end it in scarlet glory. She seized Pen-eil and pushed her forward with a vicious shove, and as quickly as Elladan leapt backwards, a crimson scratch still showed down her throat. That fleeting second off his guard proved near fatal. With the howl of a wounded beast Thuringwethil leapt upon him, throwing aside his sword. Wild eyes blazed so near his face and over and over they rolled, grey Elven-cloak and blood-stained dress entangled. With a jerk that gave him a moment, Elladan pulled his legs under him and then pushed out, sending Thuringwethil reeling, hoping his twin could give him aid. But Elrohir was not there. He had been pulled aside by the Orcs and fought now only for his life, the wound upon his arm slowing him. With a muffled curse uttered in a prayer, Elladan sprang to his feet, and dodged Thuringwethil's renewed attack. "Here!" Elrohir's voice was muffled as he threw the necklace, but he threw with haste and it landed at the feet of Pen-eil.

Elladan's sword proved useless, even against the weaponless creature. Though he was swift, she was swifter, and she mocked him. Three times it cut and seemed to touch her, and yet no blood appeared. And he was wearying. Thuringwethil was playing the son of Elrond like a cat, and they both knew that he would not live this.

Pen-eil gazed at the necklace in silence. Elladan's voice seemed so near to her, it was not twisted nor malformed. It was beautiful, it was _good_. And she could help him. The Starless warred with the Evenstar. Slowly she bent down and touched the necklace, and then scrambled back with a hiss, as sickening pain washed over her, a living fire burning her. It was something more than pain though, it seemed to hinder her. Her body was weakening, stiffening. It seemed to cast a slow paralysis over her. She snatched it up again, and the torment seemed less. She dashed to where Thuringwethil stood, and leapt on her, hooking the necklace around her neck and entangling it in the lusterless hair. Thuringwethil screamed, reaching up to pull away the pendant, and then there was a terrible shriek as Elladan drove his sword through her. With one last hideous cry, she dropped the ground, and it seemed she withered before his eyes, as her hands grasped feebly towards the West, and then she was gone, her fëa fled. But besides her lay Pen-eil, writhing on the ground, sobbing, curled up like an agonized beast. Elladan stumbled towards her. Something crashed down upon his head. The world spun in a wheel of dizzying pain and then went black.

Celebrían half-raised herself from where she had fallen from the horse. By some great blessing of Ilúvatar, she seemed to have been counted dead, and lay uninjured amidst a thousand corpses. The Orcs had fallen or fled, and the Elves rode afield and hewed down those that had escaped. She saw Elrond briefly, a glint of steel, but her heart was not focused there. Slowly she crawled amidst the black carcasses, seeking for her children. She saw Elladan first, in the arms of his brother. Elrohir was kneeling, binding up the wound on his brother with his own cloak, heedless of his own hurts. Celebrían pulled herself up a little ways to go and comfort her sons, but then she glimpsed her daughter. Arwen lay there, still curled as if in inner anguish, but silent. A hideous fear beat in Celebrían's heart, and she scrambled towards her daughter as fast as her wracked body would allow. She gathered her daughter in her arms, and then a scream broke from her, a cry for whom grief knows no bounds, and tears fell on the upturned face white and cold, rocking back and forth in a paroxysm of grief.

Dawn broke upon them, a gale sweeping away the clouds. Light had come, but at a high cost.


	14. Brother Against Brother

Celeborn crouched down by his daughter, pulling of the mesh-mailed gauntlets, and gently cradled Celebrían against his shoulder. She clung to him, eyes wild. " _Ada_ , help her, please! _Ada_ , please, please….You cannot let her die!"

"Hush. I will do what I can. _Celeb-el_ , listen to me. You must be silent."

Celebrían's strength was slowly breaking through the haze of anguish which she was endured, and she nodded, sitting straight. "There is no wound, _Ada_."

Celeborn's noble face was grim. "It is not bodily harm, Celebrían. Thuringwethil's fëa had intertwined into Arwen's, and when it was all taken away, there is a gap there. Surely you know now, that we fade not only because of sorrow when the one we love dies, but because of the anguish caused by part of their soul being wrenched away."

"Then what can we do?" Celebrían's voice was controlled, but her eyes still shone with the lurid flame of desperation.

"Give her to me." said Celeborn softly. "We must ride with all speed to Imladris. Gather the others."

"It will be slow. War has taken its toll upon us." answered a soft voice behind them. Galadriel was standing there, straight and tall as ever stood a warrior Queen of the Elder Days, but her eyes were sad. The crenulated edges of the leaf-mail glinted in the rising sun, as the fruit of Laurelin spread a fire of golden life across the corpse-field, and it almost seemed to mock them in all their grief.

Celebrían crouched down, watching as her parents spoke in low and anxious whispers, but she could hear no words. The surge of pain she had crushed done was rising, threatening to engulf her, when a gentle voice spoke to her. " _Nana_?"

She clutched Elrohir's hands, and then relaxed her grip as he winced. "My son." She steeled herself for Elrohir's sake, and slowly rose to her feet. "How fare you?"

Elrohir touched the side of his face and grinned wryly, the bandage crooked. "My looks still surpass my brother's."

Celebrían smiled weakly. "Where is Elladan?"

"He went to speak to _Ada_." Elrohir gestured out over the fields. Narrowing her eyes against mounting light, Celebrían saw Elrond at the edge of the field. He turned his steed around.

Galadriel's voice rang out across the field. "Warriors!" The Elves of Lothlórien turned upon hearing their Lady's voice. "What is the count of the slain?"

"Half a score." said a bitter voice in reply near her, and Celebrían saw an Elf-woman crouching by a lifeless body. "And those wounded?" asked Celeborn.

"Twice that."

"The ground is hard! We cannot bury our dead here, neither can we live for the carrion to feast on!" cried an Elf some paces away. His helmet lay by his feet, his dark hair matted and tangled with blood and gore.

Celeborn inclined his head. "Bear with me, Orophin. You shall gathered the wounded together, and bring all those skilled in healing arts. Those versed only in war, come with me."

It was a feverish hour for Celebrían. Her wounds had been bandaged, and now she waited in growing delirium. The world seemed to spin, the sun increase tenfold and the heat was too much. The words spoken to her now and then meant nothing to her, they were distant echoes, shells that signified nothing. She tried by all she had to force herself to other dreams, but it was useless. Vaguely she knew herself to be lifted upon a horse. Strong arms were about her. "Is she dead?" Her voice did not seem her own, thick and harsh to her ears, and yet diffident to the fate of her own daughter.

Somehow Elrond's voice brought no comfort to. "No, my heart."

"Good."

She laid her head against his broad chest and drifted into blood-darkened dreams.

Elladan's horse had been slain by an arrow, and it was among many other things that he grieved. The mare he now rode was good, but Gwaewing had been his companion from childhood, and the loss of the loyal beast was another blow. He and Elrohir rode side by side, a little behind their kin. "Are your wounds paining you?" he asked at last.

Elrohir, who had been unconsciously holding his forearm, released it with a pained expression. "I am well."

"I didn't ask that. I asked if your wounds were paining you."

"A little." admitted Elrohir reluctantly. "But did you escape the battle without a scratch?"

"No." replied Elladan. "But nothing grave." His neck was raw where the baldric had chafed it, and he had minor injuries.

"Do you think Arwen will live?"

Elladan looked at the sky. "I do not know."

Elrohir's voice was shaking. "I do not love her. She brought about this." he said, gazing backwards to where the battlefield was still in sight, black with corpses and crows. He drew a deep breath and looked towards Elladan. "And how can you?"

Elladan looked down. "I-I don't understand you."

"Yes, you do! Celloth is dead because-"

"I know!" The shout rang out louder than Elladan's had intended. He lowered his voice and leaned forward savagely. "I know that. And I do not wish to hear of her again, do you understand me?"

Elrohir had drawn away. "You are a fool."

"You wouldn't understand." hissed Elladan.

"I would try to help you, but you do not want it." said Elrohir softly.

"Not yours."


	15. Awaking Nightmares

The sun rose higher and then dropped into a bloody sky. Purple dusk enveloped the fells. The company paused for a brief hour at a pool. Elrond gently swung Celebrían down from the horse onto a blanket. "Come, drink some water." he said gently.

Celebrían crouched down, far away in a world beyond light, and the azure eyes were empty.

Glorfindel's face was somber as he sat down on the moss besides Lindir. The Elf was withdrawn into himself, green-grey eyes detached. "I'm sorry."

"I am as well." replied Lindir. A sudden spark came to him. "She was my sister, Glorfindel. My little sister. Now she's dead."

"I know." replied the warrior softly. "And I truly am sorry, Lindir."

It was a cold ride back to Imladris. Hoarfrost coated the trees in intricate spirals of lifeless snow each morning. The wounded were wrapped in blankets and cloaks. Leaves shriveled and died and fell. More than once an ancient monolith bowed its leafless head before the autumn gale and never lifted it again.

Pain was the first thing she recognized as she came out of numbness. She was being carried, wrapped in a cloak, and laid down before a fire. Her eyes were blind, she relied on her other senses. "Ada?" she choked, struggling to shape words.

"No." The voice seemed cold and yet she recognized it. " _Muindor_?"

"No." Elrohir threw a log into the flames and shut the curtains.

"Then who are you?" asked Arwen weakly. She ached, everywhere. Something seemed to be have been torn out of her, leaving an agonizing void.

"Elrohir." he replied.

The couch bent inwards painfully as she struggled to raise herself on one arm. Dark mists swirled before her eyes, tantalizing the prospect of sight, but never clearing away. She thought she could dimly see a form standing at the foot of the couch. "Then you are my brother."

"I was."

She held out her hand. "Please, Elrohir, what did I do? I don't understand. Why do I hurt so much? Why do you hate me?"

Elrohir's face softened slightly. He knelt beside her, though he did not take her hand. "Forget what I said, and sleep."

"I cannot sleep." she whispered, a tear running down her cheek. "It's all dreams and darkness, everything, even my waking moments. Will you sit with me?"

Branches rattled against the window-panes as the wind howled. Elrohir looked outside, then back to the slender figure that lay huddled in the blanket. "For a little while."

"Thank you." she whispered, as he sat at the foot at the couch. Distant memories came to both of them.

 _Elrohir fell over the arm of the couch. "What are you reading, little sister?"_

 _It had been a grey day, and Arwen had looked through the large library. She held up the title. "Can you read it to me?" she lisped. Elrohir ruffled her black curls. "I have nothing else to do. Let's see." He flipped randomly through the pages till he found a suitable starting places. "-This cavern was in the heart of the mighty forest of Doriath that is the mightiest of forests, and a stream ran before its doors, but none could enter that portal save across the-"_

" _Don't start in the middle. Start at the beginning of the chapter!" interrupted Arwen, scrambling up._

 _Elrohir groaned. "Fussy little bird. Very well. 'Ilúvatar had set a seed of music in the hearts of all that kindred, or so Vairë saith, and she is of them, and it blossomed after very wondrously, but now the song of Melian's nightingales was the most beautiful music that Elu had ever heard, and he strayed aside for a moment, as he thought, from the host, seeking in the dark trees whence it might come….' (1)_

"Why am I here?" asked Arwen at last, opening her eyes once more, but the blindness lingered.

"I will not speak of it now. Be silent and rest."

"But why are you so cold to me?" she insisted. "I don't understand."

Elrohir ran a finger along the crenulated of his brooch. "You don't have too. Just sleep."

"Please..."

"No!" The door slammed. Arwen sank back down with a little whimper.

The wind howled and the fire flamed. Dreams came and went with giddying reality. The iron taste of blood was in her mouth, and she retched, sick at the very thought. She borne high above lofty peaks, while a reek filled the air of sweet decay, and there was the flapping of wings. Her head spun. Her heart burned. Voices. The raucous sounds of crows. She gazed at a pool and saw in the reflection a face that was not her own. A chain swung before her eyes, dizzying circles, and she vaguely saw a white jewel as a pendant as it spun round and round and round….

Celebrían sat beside her in the woodlands, and they laughed and spoke of many things. And then there was a change. A snarl was behind her. Celebrían leapt to her feet with a scream….and it faded away as she washed her hands in a stream and watched the clear water eddy into crimson.

She played in a pile of autumn-leaves and laughed. A grey wind came and blew all the leaves away, and then blew them back, but now they were not leaves, they were bats hissing beside her, tearing at her hair and biting at her face. She curled up and screamed as the whirling sounds of black wings filled the air. Then there was something else, and she lay at the feet of a woman who spoke not to her but the bats. "Well done, my pets, well done….." came the sibilantly sweet hiss.

The sound of Nightingales filled the air, and a woman strode with determined step, and behind her came a shadowy shape. Then the woman turned round. The wings were claimed, a shadow fled wailing away and something spun into the night sky.

"She's awake." The voice was clear, loud, far too loud. She groaned and turned away. "Open your eyes." The tone was stern, almost harsh. "Can you see me?"

Arwen obeyed. The light blinded her, dim though it was, and it took some time before she could see the one in front of her. It was Elrond. His face was haggard and pale. "Ada?" she whispered, struggling to sit up.

He took her in his arms, blankets trailing, and she leaned against his chest, feeling as a young girl once more, safe and content. "I love you, Ada." she murmured.

"I love you as well." replied Elrond. She shivered. "Why was I there?"

"You will learn later, _tithen-el_. I must go now."

"So soon?" she pleaded.

Elrond's jaw tensed. "Yes. Your mother needs tending." He laid her on the couch and with a hasty step out of the room. Arwen lay there for some time, watching the thick snow grow higher and higher. Cheerful voices were muted as they passed by her room.

Using the arm of the couch as support, she stumbled to her feet. Her head spun for a moment, and she leaned against the frame till it subsided. Wrapping the blanket around her, she staggered to the door and opened the latch. It was locked. Horrified, she reeled back against the wall. She heard footsteps, and then her brothers' voices. "I will not."

"Please, 'Ro." begged Elladan, using the childish pet-name.

"No."

"Of all who should be angry at her, it should be I. Celloth died because of her, and yet she still is my sister."

Elrohir sighed. "Then you are a better one than I. But I will not. I cannot."

"You can. You are one of the noblest Elves on all Endor. See her, please. She is not of Thuringwethil's brood anymore. She is Arwen, our-"

"Your sister."

"Our sister." repeated Elladan firmly.

"No. Please, just let it go."

"There is a rift already in our family." Elladan's voice was growing choked. "Mother speaks of sailing. Do not make the chasm deeper!"

"Gods, no!" Elrohir's voice raged like the swelling tide. " _She_ did this, and you still dare to think of her as a _sister_!"

"Thuringwethil did this, not her." Elladan's voice was calmer, shaking with controlled and cool anger.

"Let me be!"

Footsteps retreated. There was a hoarse sob, and then the lock clicked. Arwen threw all her strength against the door. "Don't enter!" she shouted.

Elladan's voice was soft. "Arwen, what is it?"

"Please, just go!" she cried. "That is why the door was locked!" Her voice failed her for a moment. "I am of Thuringwethil's brood." She fell against the door.

(1.) From the History of Middle Earth


	16. From the Ashes

The fire was dying into embers as she sat wrapped in her blankets by the window. It was white and lifeless as far as the eyes could see, save where naked tree spread barren branches to the bleak skies.

Slowly she rose and went to the door. To her surprise, Elladan had left it unlocked. She opened it, and for a moment gazed at the holly wreaths that proclaimed the Yuletide. The glossy leaves glittered in the lantern-light, and the crimson berries were shining with the tint of blood. The pit sank deeper into her heart as she made her way along the hall, a strange ghostly figure, pale as death, her bedclothes rustling softly. "Elladan?" Her voice was a weak whisper. "Elrohir?"

Silence surrounded her, though she could hear the sounds of muffled merriment not far away. But she was alone, in a little cage, forlorn and sad. She stiffened her back, and wrapped the clothes tighter around her as she drifted down the passageway to her mother's room.

The knock she gave echoed. There was no answer. Hesitantly she pushed open the door. Celebrían lay upon her bed, the silver glory of hair splayed out over a pale, drawn face. Arwen approached silently, stretching out a hand.

Someone seized her violently, and dragged her out. The door clicked shut. Arwen stared at Elrohir in horror.

"Do not even think of going in there again." he hissed, his voice was a rasping growl.

"She's my mother." said Arwen, straightening against the first wave of fear the menace in his grey eyes has caused.

"Really?" He leaned against the wall. "Thuringwethil seemed-"

Arwen lunged for him, but he was too quick. He slid away from the wall, yet she pivoted and seized him. "Thuringwethil never was my mother. Understand that."

Elrohir's jaw clenched, but she held a tight grip on his tunic. "You saw me the first hour of my birth. Do not think you can lie and deceive yourself now that I am not your true sister. I wanted to tell you something."

"Yes?"  
"I am-sorry."

Elrohir's face softened slightly, and Arwen drew up the courage to continue. "I am sorry for what I did. I am _so_ sorry."

"Do you think _sorry_ suffices?" he asked. "It seems a feeble justification, but it will do." He pried off Arwen's grip. "Please go back to your room."

Arwen picked up her blanket and wrapped it around her. It seemed colder as she walked down the hallway, and the fire was all but dead in her room. Slowly she coaxed it back to life, and sat in front of the blaze. It's flickering light brought some measure of comfort to her, as the warmth grew and grew.

She spent time there, drifting through the season of winter on still wings, sitting by the fire and thinking. She dreaded the day, and she dreaded the night most of all, only half aware of Elrohir's coldness, but all too acutely knew of Celebrían's pain.

When _Rhìw-pelin_ came at last, she opened the shuddered window. A fresh wind stirred her cloak, and brought the lone and wild cry of a curlew over the bleak lands. Below her window was a cluster of dark green, and white buds hung down.

"Elrohir!"

The Peredhel turned towards the voice. It was Celeborn. His fair face was grave. "I wish to speak to you."

"I am here." muttered Elrohir.

Celeborn smiled grimly. "Nay, outside will serve us the better."

The spring wind met the two with savage joy, swirling around them. The snow had melted away, leaving a dreary brown in place of the frozen white. They walked in silence for a long time in the gardens, up towards the pine hills, the only green that they could see. Ice still huddled amidst the shadowy forest of dark branches. The waning sunlight strove in vain to pierce it, and it was chill as they wandered. Fog wound a way amongst the damp trunks, and the tops of the noble trees were mist-crowned. "Spring seems loathe to spread her blessings over this land."

"Lady Yavanna will not waste it on accursed ground." returned Elrohir, glancing backwards towards the house.

"I think you ascribe too much to what happened yesteryear and forget that seasons are fickle." said Celeborn evenly. "And I see no cursed creature."

"Have you not then seen Arwen?" asked Elrohir coldly.

Celeborn's eyes were calm with all the patience that only long years can bring. "Yes. I see both my daughter and my daughter's daughter fading, withdrawn into their own misery. I also know part of the reason for this long-drawn sadness."

"And that is?" continued Elrohir.

"You."

This took the youngest Elrondion by surprise. He whirled round on his grandfather. "What?!"

"You heard me. Your coldness not only wounds Arwen, as you no doubt intended it too, and Celebrían, who sees it and grieves, but _you._ "

Elrohir shook his head in disbelief. He stopped on the wet pine-needles. "I don't believe you."

"You do." Celeborn's voice was commanding. "No one deceives you as much as you yourself."

Elrohir said nothing. Even to himself, his words of defense had a hollow ring. So he stood silent, gazing off into the mist-clad distance. Tears stung his eyes. The sun was setting now, streaking the clouds with fearsome shades of red and gold, immense and majestic.

"I fear Thuringwethil's curse was not vanquished, even with her death."

The dam broke, the barrier that had been strained now snapped. Elrohir seized his grandfather's hand in a warrior's salute, ignoring the tears that were running down his face. "I must go." he choked, and fled down the hill.

Arwen leapt up from her window-seat in surprise as she saw Elrohir standing there. "What are-" She got no further. Elrohir embraced her, whispering. "I am _so_ sorry, little sister." His voice was trembling, thick with sorrow.

At first Arwen had tensed, expecting something worse, but then leaned against his shoulder. "So am I, brother, so am I."

He let her go. "I have to see….Nana."


	17. A Fire Shall be Woken

Elrohir opened the door cautiously. His mother lay there, her face pale and hollow. Greater evils than the Orcs had tormented her, for the daughter of Galadriel was not easily broken. But there she lay, her hands white and chill as he crept to her beside. For nigh upon four months she had lain in feverish pain or alternately in spells of death-like sleep. As spring crept on, her head had grown clearer, and her eyes were not so deadened. Unwilling to wake her, yet knowing this would help heal her, he sat down and gently caressed her hand till she stirred and opened her eyes. All that life was gone, the glittering sparkle that showed the vibrant joy of just living.

"Nana, I must speak to you."

She nodded.

"I am sorry….for the way I treated my little sister." He hesitated, unsure of what to say or how to say it, but the grip tightened on his hands, and Celebrían smiled. That smile hurt him more than he ever dared to say, when he remembered her of old, and saw her now, a weak shell of herself. "Thank you, _tithen ion_."

He sat down beside her. "Nana…..is it true you still speak-"

Her eyes were filled with ages of sadness as she looked up at him. "Elrohir, I wish I could say no. How I wish I could stay here and be a mother and wife, a companion and a friend. But I cannot. The seas consumes me. When I look into your grey eyes I see the grey ships harbored at the Havens, when I look into Arwen's blue eyes I see the seawater. Everything calls me to it, every fiber in body leans to it, my blood pounds for it. Endor now seems empty and desolate." She sighed. "There were greater evils than Orcs in that den. They have crushed me."

Pain rose in his throat, but he forced it down. "Then go, Nana. We cannot let you linger in your pain."

A faint smile curved the edges of her pale lips. She brought up her trembling hands and pulled down his head till their foreheads touched. "You are truly….a son of Lúthien." Then she fell back. "Go. Tell Elrond. I must speak to him."

The door remained closed for a long time, and Elrohir sat outside it. He heard no words, vague murmurs and stifled sobs, and the door opened, and Elrond came out. Celebrían lay on her bed. She seemed to have made peace, and her silver hair lay outspread on the pillow like a corona of starlight. Tears gleamed on her pale cheeks, but her eyes were closed in the embrace of sleep.

Elrond's jaw was clenched as he silently shut the door, but his grey eyes were filled with pain. Elrohir clasped his father's arm, and then moved away.

Cold spring winds wailed bleakly over the sea shore, and there stood the family, huddled in their cloaks. The sea sang a wild song, but it was pale, inadequate, and its mournful wail of crashing surfs was not deep enough to comprehend the sorrow. But still its song rolled on. A grey ship rode in the harbor, its dark mast lifted like a leafless tree. Cold and forbidding the waters groaned, the waves wind-sculpted as they reared their awesome crests in vast, swelling glory.

Starlight shone on the surface, the moon limpid and full, beautiful and unheeding of mortal and immortal fears, alike to the sea, who cared not whether mortal or immortal tears were shed.

No words were spoken. There were none to be. They stood in silence, staring over the merciless sea, and Arwen hated it in that moment, hated it in a blind fury.

Galadriel's voice was soft amidst the wind-flurried mists. "The ship awaits, Celebrían."

Slowly the Silver Lady kissed each a bitter farewell, but it seemed blurred, and Arwen did not comprehend when her mother's arms encircled her and when they dropped.

And then it came with frightening clarity. Celebrían upon the silver plank, slowly crossing it, each step a death knell. The Evenstar had resolved aforehand not to board, but the waters beckoned, her mother's anguished face called her. But she would not. She would not sail those seas, not yet, not until she had earned some measure of forgiveness for her evil. The white sail was unleashed, the wind caught it, and the ship lanced forward into the enclosing shrouds of night. Arwen raised her hand.

* " _Naneth namárië_!

 _Renia-thîd athra a celeb aear!_

 _Ai! Dae melda ach thî namárië!_

 _Ídh mend i nef aearon!_

 _Ídh innas han ia ner!_

 _Ídh innas melin ullumde ìdh vore!_

 _Namárië!_ "

The last words fell in feeble appeal, echoing on the wind and running round and round in spirit voices. And then veil of darkness closed around the ship. It was done. Arwen turned away and slowly mounted her horse.

Along the winding path to Imladris, the bare ribs of the rolling fells still showed the last snows. The swelling buds showed that the icy grip of winter was vanquished, but no joy was brought to their hearts as beneath the bronze of dead bracken, a mist of bluebells gleamed, or when the fields glittered in the new-risen sunshine, wisps of mist clinging damply to the little blades of green. It still seemed cold.

No song nor music greeted their returns, they were hailed with soft voices and silence. And this was as it should be, as they entered the house that seemed a frigid home.

)

The last rays of the dying sun shadowed the newborn leaves as the sonorous cry of the owl echoed. The light was fading fast. A few stars pricked the deep blue canopy of the sky, and the sliver of the crescent moon shed a mournful light on the figure crouched in abject misery. A nightingale began to sing, but Arwen cowered down under the sound.

She was not a worthy daughter of the Nightingale. Lúthien had thrown down Thuringwethil, Thuringwethil had thrown down her. She had wholly surrendered to the evil. She was weak. She was a worm. Her hands clenched. She had failed, yes, she had failed, but there was another chance, a chance to be strong, a chance to deserve the love they gave so freely. Arwen stood up. Now was the time to begin.

The library doors stood open. She walked in, the moonlight filtering through the panes and lighting up the ancient marble tile. Running a hand among the scrolls and vellum-bound books she seized a title and withdrew it, and then strode with steady steps away.

"Brother? Brother?" An insistent voice broke through the darkness, and Elladan briefly stirred. He hurt, everywhere, his heart crushed double.

Slowly he looked up to see Arwen gazing sadly at him, sable masses of hair falling wildly. He felt a pang of guilt. His younger sister had grief as well.

She sat down beside him, and together they stared into the dying embers of the fire. "Arwen….." His voice sounded hoarse. "Please forgive me."

Large grey-blue eyes stared up at him in surprise. "For what?"

"For ignoring you."

A tear trickled down her pale face. "I know you lost twice as much as I, but I-I think that Celloth is-" She swallowed. "Is happy."

He smiled bitterly. "Happy in the Halls of Mandos, sister?"

Arwen looked down. "I do not think death is so terrible." she whispered. "If you are prepared for it. It is a rest, but not the end." She handed him a slender, hand-bound book. In flowing Tengwar it said 'Of Death and the Children of Erú, and of the Marring of Men.' *

Elladan took it gently, and then smiled faintly at her. "Thank you, Evenstar."

She laid her head against his shoulder and opened the book. "I think it will help us both."

Elladan's clear voice and Arwen's silvery tones read, now one and now the other, but there was often silence, as they considered together of Death and the Firstborn.

As the firelight burned dim, Arwen stirred. Half-asleep, she had wondered in a wild dream world, and now looked up to see the first rays of rosy light come in. Elladan was sleeping. Gently she stood up, careful not to disturb him, and closed the door behind her.

She went out to the orchard, the dew drenching her shoes, and watched the new-made fruit blossoms gleam. It was a hard task to face, to tell Lindir…..He had avoided her, eyes downcast, and his skillful fingers no longer played over harp strings or flute. The morning air gave her courage, and she turned back to where Imladris stood young and pure in the dawning.  
Silence pervaded as she walked down the marble halls. Lindir was not in his room, and she searched this way and that, till finally a strange thought seized her and she opened the door to the Hall of Fire. The musician stood there, his fair face lit with the sun and shadowed with grief, seated before a tall, ornate harp. He tentatively plucked a few strings, and then courage seized him, and his fingers raced, telling a story with in the music. She stood entranced, as the song rolled on, intermingled threads of sadness and rage surfing up to break on the wall made of friendship. Tears trickled down both their faces, but they heeded them not, lost in long ago memories, growing stronger and stronger.  
The music flickered, fading down into silence as the tide withdrew. Lindir stood up, and Arwen stepped forward. The ellon started back in surprise, but she seized his hand. "Lindir, words are weak, but how can I show it to you? I am sorry, so very sorry. Forgive me, please."  
He drew a shuddering breath. "You are forgiven. Bonds of friendship cannot be so easily severed."  
"But after all I did…..after Celloth…."  
"If you had asked this a day ago, I would have rebuffed you." said Lindir. "But I cannot do that now. I have seen so many dawns since that deathly day, and yet this one struck a chord in me that I could not silence, a chord of hope. When I sail those westering Seas, and enter the realm of Twilight, then Celloth will meet me. Death is not final, not for the Eldar."  
Arwen swallowed, nodding, as the tears she had kept back stung her eyes bitterly. "You are wise, Lindir, wiser than me. And how I thank you, my childhood friend!"

*Mother farewell  
Now you sail, across the silver waters  
Ai! Much loved but now farewell  
And you go beyond the Great Sea  
I will remember the days that once were  
I will love you always and forever! Farewell!"  
You will have to forgive my mangling of Sindarin.  
*Also known as Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth.


	18. The Line of Lúthien Shall Never Fail

**A\N. Since this is the last chapter, I want to thank everyone who reviewed, and especially Ardhoniel Marvelite, who inspired this, put up with my constant questions, and quite often beta-ed it. Thank you!**

Arwen turned to Aragorn, her eyes blue in the starlight. "That is the end of the tale, Elfstone. We fought our way through the years, and now we are here, removed from the horror of latter days."

Aragorn's eyes were fixed on the slender figure of the Evenstar. "I-"

Arwen turned back, shadowed by Ithil. The White City shone soft and young in the Hunter's Moon. "It is terrible, is it not?" She shuddered. "Never have I forgiven myself for the murder of the Dúnadaneth."

Aragorn shook his head. "No, I would not expect you too."

Her eyes were sad as she took his hands in his own, sitting down on the bed. "Are you wroth with me, _melin_? I should have told you sooner, I know, but I could not lose you."

Aragorn leaned forward, gently pulling his hand away and wiping off the tear that trickled down her cheek. "No, never. Thuringwethil's evil did it, not you, _vanimelda_."

A faint smile curved Arwen's lips, though tears still shimmered in her eyes. "Her murder was something that cannot be forgotten, and I will never forget it, for it would dishonor her memory." She stood up again, and paced to the window. Aragorn followed her, and together they stared at the orb glowing silver, wisps of cloud flying across its pale face. The Undómiel spoke, her voice soft and clear. "Out there, Elfstone, I wonder how many of Thuringwethil's brood still prowl the night? She has instilled the hatred of Tinúviel's race in them, and our children will be of that race." She turned to him, and her eyes were shining, her voice raised in shivering exultation. "But know this also, Elessar. The Line of Lúthien will never fail!"


End file.
